


The Spirit of Vengeance

by alesdaer



Series: The Spirit of Justice [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Comics), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M, Minor Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age), Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26086405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alesdaer/pseuds/alesdaer
Summary: Avisalen Tabris Sabrae Lavellan has accumulated a variety of names over the course of her life — eleven years separate her from the very last time she was Enchanter Ffiona Tabris and nothing more. Now, with the Conclave destroyed, and her nephew, Faron Lavellan, in the hands of a human Inquisition, she travels from the Free Marches to Ferelden to find and free him. Salen is guided by her haren, a spirit who has been with her since she was just coming into her magic. Taller and broader than other elves, with knowledge no modern elf could possess, Salen enters Haven to find her nephew and greet her enemy: Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf.
Relationships: Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Cassandra Pentaghast/Varric Tethras, Female Amell/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Solas/Female Tabris, Zevran Arainai/Male Tabris
Series: The Spirit of Justice [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893949
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

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A LETTER FROM ADAIA TABRIS TO DUNCAN, WARDEN COMMANDER OF FERELDEN — 9:14 DRAGON

_Duncan,_

_I hope – my friend – that you still remember your roots — Val Royeaux seems an age away. The word in Denerim is that they’ve made you the Warden Commander in Ferelden. I honestly can’t understand what’s gotten into them. I thought Grey Wardens were supposed to be the best of us. Perhaps they just like the look of your pretty human face. I still think you should return that beard to whichever rat you skinned it from._

_Cyrion asks after you. I think that, were it not for the three children asleep in the next room, he would worry about our affair. Liam has recently inherited the wooden griffin you carved for Kallian. Ffiona swore and screamed like a banshee, but she insists that she is no longer a child. So, a child she will no longer be. She tries to follow Kallian everywhere which Kalli detests as you might imagine. Kalli’s found herself a sweetheart that she doesn’t think I know about. Silly girl. It’s like she’s forgotten who taught her how to sneak around. The boy isn’t my first choice, but she could do worse. He’s apprenticed at the very least. She’ll be bored out of her mind with him but comfortable enough._

_Ffiona tells me almost nightly how much she misses your stories. I’ve run out and had to begin making them up. If she asks you about how you single-handedly saved King Maric from a horde of darkspawn in the Korcari Wilds just play along. You were always good at bullshit. Maybe that’s why they went and put you in charge. I think she can see right through mine, though. Damn kid. Too perceptive by half. I feel like she’s reading my mind some days. It’s worrying. Her nightmares have gotten a lot worse of late._

_Liam is a joy. A mischievous little joy. He makes off with anything interesting or shiny that crosses his path. Cyrion’s taken to calling him “magpie.” It’s really quite sweet. Especially when my miraen has gotten hold of his purse for the third time that week._

_Cyrion and Valendrian have been speaking almost nightly — I think they’re plotting my demise. There’s a pretty elven maid that’s just come to the Alienage from Gwaren. I’m telling you, falon. I should have joined the Grey Wardens like you told me to. They’re going to push me in front of a carriage and make off with my fortune. I have only you to rely on to avenge my cruel death. I’m sure that means they’ll get away without a hitch._

_I hope you haven’t been forgetting yourself. I know you, falon. You’ve drunk too much of that Warden wine, and you forget to take moments for yourself. The world won’t end just because you decide to take off that Maker-forsaken plate mail at least once a week._

_Write back to me, won’t you? I miss your ugly shem face, and your stupid human humor. At least send me some new stories so I can put Ffiona out of her misery._

_All my love,_

_Adaia_

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always loved Adaia's character, and I wanted to know more about her and her relationship with Duncan. In this story, Adaia grew up in the Alienage of Val Royeaux and met Duncan in Orlais when he was a young teenager. She travelled to Denerim to be married in 8:97 Blessed to marry Cyrion Tabris, but she missed Duncan a lot. After the events of The Calling, Duncan tried to recruit Adaia into the Grey Wardens, but by this time she and Cyrion already have three children: Kallian, Ffiona, and Liam. Valendrian convinces Duncan that Adaia should remain with her family. This letter is from 9:14 Dragon the year that, in my mind, Duncan became the Warden-Commander in Fereleden. 
> 
> For those of you reading my other fic, Until My Days are Done, both will be receiving regular updates for now.
> 
> Elvhen language used:
> 
> miraen – “little thief”  
> falon – “friend”  
> shem – from “shemlen” meaning “quick”, this is the Elvhen word for “human” and it is not meant to be flattering


	2. May the Dread Wolf Never Catch Your Scent

Salen 9:41 Dragon

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The howling of a wolf pack woke her near dawn. Their voices carried over the frost of the early spring morning and filled the air with soaring harmonies. A lone elven woman sat up from the pile of pelts around her and reached for her boots. The remains of a campfire lay smoking beside her, and a naked sword lay well within reach of her fingers. She was dressed in the woven leather armor that marked her as Dalish, but her cheekbones were bare of the graceful markings that would confirm it. A tousled braid hung over one shoulder. With a sigh, the woman tugged the leather tie holding it in place until it unraveled. Dark curls streaked with white sprang free and fell around her face soaking up the morning mist.

This close to the northern tip of Lake Calenhad the mist was thick and heavy. Three weeks’ travel had taken her from the already flowering fields of Wycome to the still bitter mornings of Ferelden. The earliest of spring flowers were still hidden beneath last autumn’s carpet of leaves here, and the chill at night was dangerous. All of Ferelden seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the coming of warmer weather. 

The woman stood and crossed her small camp to the crest of a hill nearby. The fields and farms to the east were buried beneath the blanket of fog. The lake directly to the south was hidden behind its veil except for a tall obelisk some leagues away rising seemingly from the center of the lake itself. 

Kinloch Hold had been the home of Ferelden’s Circle of Magi since the Towers Age. Countless mages and templars had entered through its gates to live, suffer, and die within those walls. Eleven years ago most of the people in the Circle had been killed in a desperate coup attempt that had ended badly for everyone. Now the tower stood empty, its inhabitants scattered to the winds to hunt or be hunted due to an accident of birth.

Ffiona Tabris had once entered those gates. She had lived and suffered within those walls, but she had not died there. Eleven years ago she had been taken away from a fate of quiet suffering within the Circle. She had joined the many refugees fleeing Ferelden during the Blight and met with a Dalish clan seeking passage north to the Free Marches. Clan Sabrae had accepted her and her magic. She had taken on a new name and a new role in the clan, Avisalen Tabris Sabrae, Second to the Keeper. She had born her new name with pride and devoted herself to the clan as all Dalish are expected to do, but she found that her new clan was just as flawed and unforgiving as the templars who had locked her away. It was years before she could bring herself to leave them, but she did. The Free Marches were a forgiving place to wander once you left the cities behind. It was deep within the countryside that she had found another Dalish clan and family she had never hoped to see again.

Salen laughed as she recalled Keeper Marethari Talas and the many, many fights they had. This pattern of arguing with her Keeper hadn’t changed when her sister had talked her into joining Clan Lavellan either. That she was standing here leagues away from her clan with no vallaslin to speak of was evidence of that. When Keeper Deshanna had received news of the Conclave, she had been full of fire and righteous injustice, but when word of the imprisonment of one of their hunters by the humans’ _Inquisition_ had reached them, the old woman had refused to take any action at all. After days of needling her, Deshanna had revealed that the hunter was Salen’s nephew, Faron, and Salen had truly lost her temper. Hours into their shouting match, the Keeper had exiled Salen from the clan, and Salen had been free to do whatever her conscious bid her. 

It had bid her travel to Haven. The newly declared Inquisition had taken up residence in the sleepy mountain village, and Salen had encountered many a would-be-soldier and an even greater number of desperate pilgrims on the road heading west. She was little more than a week from Haven now, and she still had little-to-no information to base her judgements on. The stories she had picked up crossing the Waking Sea and passing through the port city of Highever had done little to assure her of anything concrete.

This turned her thoughts to darker things, and she turned her head to the west where the Frostback Mountains rose under a broken sky. Light from the Breach bathed the snowy peaks of the mountains. The chunks of mortar and stone swirling in the wake of the Breach had been indeterminate shapes from farther east, but she believed the humans when they said that the remains of their temple were trapped there. Salen shuddered and looked away. If the remains of the building were trapped within the Veil what had happened to the remains of the people who had died there?

The sun had risen over the tops of the trees by that point and the wolf pack had long since gone to rest. Salen picked her way back down the bluff and began the process of rolling her furs up and covering the fire. Hefting her pack onto her shoulders she returned her sword to its sheath and retrieved her staff from the tree she had slept under the night before. With one last look to the south, she retraced her steps back to the road before turning west toward the mountains. 

The morning passed by quickly as she walked — the frigid morning air gave way to warm sunshine which melted the previous night’s frost. Salen let the sun bathe her cheeks and enjoyed the warmth creeping through her limbs as her muscles adjusted to the pace. Long weeks of walking and several miserable days aboard a ship had brought her through northern Ferelden and around the crest of Lake Calenhad. Her route also had the benefit of avoiding much of the mage-templar fighting happening throughout the countryside. Soon she would turn south again and head into the mountains. 

The sound of voices ahead alerted her to the presence of other people on the road — she may have been away from the bulk of the fighting in Ferelden but that didn’t mean she was inclined to trust the travelers that she came across. Salen glanced behind her and saw the telltale smudge on the horizon that would soon become people. A large group of people if the noise was anything to go by. Lifting her staff she sent a breeze down the road behind her to cover her tracks and retreated into the trees. 

After about fifteen minutes the group finally drew level with her hiding place, and Salen studied them curiously. The figure at the head was massive with horns that stuck out from either side of his head. He stood more than a foot above the others and had to be well over seven feet in height. He was also the loudest of the group, and his voice had been the one to alert her to their presence. Behind him followed a mixed group all bearing weapons.

Salen sat back against the tree she tucked against. They had to be mercenaries. She wasn’t sure which company they were, though she had to assume that there weren’t many as mixed as this one. Only gold and the thrill of easy glory would pull together this many people from so many disparate groups. They passed by her without glancing up and continued down the road. An elven woman brought up the rear. The curving vallaslin on her face and the staff clutched in her hands marked her as both Dalish and a mage.

When they were properly ahead of her, Salen returned to the road and resumed her previous pace. The woods around her were mostly evergreens and rowan trees which provided easy cover even in early spring. She remained by the edge of the road, ready to retreat beneath their boughs as needed. 

She had to leave the road twice more before the sun reached its zenith — once for a line of wagons laden down with all the worldly possessions of several families, judging by the number of children crying, and again for a group of mounted soldiers in ring mail. The red trim and flashing insignia on their chest plates marked them as Inquisition. Salen pushed herself deeper into the trees as they passed. 

The road continued to sweep directly west and Salen kept glancing to the south as she followed the road up into the Ferelden Highlands. The Frostback Mountains rose up some 60 miles from the western edge of Lake Calenhad and the space in between was high bluffs and thick forests. The highlands were the stage for many tales in the country of Ferelden. The highlands being cold, lonely, and dreadfully windy, many of those tales were tragedies. Salen had heard and told her fair share of them as a girl in Kinloch Hold — all of the windows in the Circle had been covered by bars, but the bars had not stopped them from looking out over the countryside around them.

Salen stopped at the crest of a hill to check the sun and consider her route. She could see a small patch of trees some ways to the south and a game trail that started only a few hundred yards ahead of her that crossed through it. Further to the south she could see the point where the road finally turned and wound through the hills before disappearing into the mountains. Following the road would take her some ways to the west still before it finally turned south. Considering the distance still to go, she set off down the southwest side of the hill to follow the game trail not far ahead.

The distance to the forest was further than she had thought, but eventually she passed into the shade of the bare rowan trees there. The trail continued to meander between patches of sunlight where the grass would grow thick and green in the summer. It seemed to pass directly through the center of the forest, and the trees here rose much higher into the sky than those beside the road.

She reached a ring of oak trees that grew so close together it was impossible to see what lay beyond them. The trail continued right up to their trunks before disappearing out of sight. Salen eagerly slipped between the trees. She found a small hill dotted with white petals and topped with a single, flowering tree. The petals beneath her feet were the result of the thousands of blossoms on its branches. She crossed the grass slowly, breathing in the scent. She passed the tree before she paused and looked up. The branches above her were pale gold and the first buds of new leaves could be seen between the flowers. Salen smiled and reached up to gather one of the blossoms.

A flash of light startled her and pressure on the back of her neck came and went as though someone had placed their fingers there for just a moment. The tree which had felt solid and unyielding a moment before melted beneath her fingertips and became a single figure carved from white stone. She gazed at the visage of the man there and tried to commit his face to memory.

She knew, as all Dalish did, that the remains of their once great empire lay across the lands of Thedas — despite the migration of the clans, many of these ruins remained untouched for centuries at a time. Salen studied the statue and wondered who he had been. The artist who had carved him had portrayed him in simple clothing with loose hair spilling around his shoulders hiding all but the tips of his pointed ears. His hands were turned up at the palm as though he were awaiting something. She reached out and placed her palms against his, feeling the worn stone beneath her fingertips. His expression was solemn, but his eyes were kind.

Salen took a moment to rest in the clearing and quietly eat her midday meal. Most of the salted meat and dried fruit she had purchased in Highever was gone by this point, and she knew she would need to start hunting again. She was not worried. Every member of a Dalish clan had to be able to hunt to some extent, and when she had refused to become one of Deshanna’s apprentices joining the hunters was the only recourse left to her. Eventually, she judged that she had spent far too much time in the clearing and rose to leave. She circled around to face the statue one last time before she crossed her left arm over her chest and bowed her head. “ _Dareth shiral, lethallin_.”

Another game trail led her further south. The mountains were close now and snow still dusted the trees. Salen followed the trail quickly to make up for the time spent near the white stone statue. She turned the statue over in her mind as she walked. It was old, very old, but the whole clearing had been heavy with magic. The visage of the tree had been part of a protection spell that had already been fading when Salen encountered it. It had kept the statue clean and undamaged, but would leave it open to the elements now. 

The road was visible just ahead when the sound of shouting reached her — Salen sank back into the trees as another figure stepped onto the trail. The human was heavily armed and bearing both sword and shield in his hands. His back was to her, but she could see the Chantry sunburst on the long tabard which covered his legs.

On the road ahead, the shouting was joined by the clash of weaponry, and the templar in front of her began creeping ahead. His armor scraped and the leather buckles creaked as he moved, but Salen knew that no one on the road would hear his approach over the noise. Making her decision she darted after him, her soleless boots making no noise on the soft dirt. If she pulled from the Fade now he would notice her, but he might not once the battle on the road was in sight to distract him. Her eyesight was better than any human, and she could see that the road ahead was currently clogged with templars swinging blades against the mercenaries from earlier in the day. Her trail through the woods must have taken her more quickly south than the road by several hours.

The thrill of magic close by caught the attention of the templar. Salen took advantage of the moment and reached into the Fade before wrapping it around herself. It took only an extra moment of concentration to step through the Fade than it would have to take a step down the trail but it left a swath of frozen trees and one trapped templar in her wake. Turning smartly, she hefted her staff up and then drove the butt down on the frozen man. The sharpened end cracked through the ice and sank into the gap in his armor directly beneath his sword arm. No sound escaped him, but the rush of blood as she yanked her staff free would prevent him from following her quite efficiently.

She turned and ran for the opening in the trees — the fighting on the road was intense, but the mercenaries did not seem to be suffering at all for it. Salen brough her staff down on the head of a templar intent on pursuing a dwarven man carrying a sack of some kind. She reversed her swing and sank the blade into the templar’s throat before dancing back. A spell sang over her head, and Salen saw the Dalish mage she had identified earlier. The elf was back-to-back with a human man swinging a maul. Salen dashed forward, drawing on the Fade as she did, and pointed her staff at the back of the closest templar. White ice consumed him, and Salen saw the other mage glance up. She gave a small nod, and both elves brought their staves down on the frozen figure. 

A moment later, the warrior standing back-to-back with the other elf brought his maul down on the last templar, and the road was suddenly still. A roar of laughter brought Salen’s attention immediately to the large qunari hefting a two-handed greatsword. He was looking right at her with a self-satisfied grin. She noticed that he was missing an eye. The other was covered by a patch anchored to his horns. “Chargers,” he called. “Stand down!”

Salen straightened her shoulders and placed the butt of her staff on the ground as the large man stalked toward her — he stopped just out of reach of her staff and leaned on his sword. “You going to attack us?”

Salen snorted, “I wasn’t planning on dying today, so no.”

His good eye narrowed slightly, “Wise decision. Where’re you headed?”

“Haven.”

“Same,” he gestured around them. “Name’s the Iron Bull. My merc band just joined up. Throat cutters are gonna finish up here and then we’re back on the road. Feel like camping in style?”

“I’m not sure we share the same idea of style, but I won’t pass up the chance to sleep through the night.”

He grinned, “Excellent. Krem!” This last did not seem to be directed at her. “How’d we do?”

The human with the maul shrugged, “Rocky’s got a cut on his arm and a few of the archers got a little roughed up, Chief. Nothing Stitches’ potions can’t handle.”

Another man spoke up from where he was applying a bandage to the shoulder of an ashen-faced dwarf, “It’s a poultice, dammit! Don’t encourage him!” 

A round of good-natured amusement swept through the soldiers, and Salen watched them with a slight smile. The Iron Bull dropped his hand onto the shoulder of the human with the maul who, surprisingly, bore it without staggering. “This is my lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi.” The human nodded, and Salen inclined her head. “The rest of these assholes are the Bull’s Chargers.” A chorus of insults went up at this pronouncement, and Salen found herself grinning. The other mercenaries seemed to be content with lazily cleaning their weapons and armor while an elven woman with dark hair moved from templar to templar with a sharp knife.

Salen lifted her chin with a laugh, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The Bull’s Chargers were both organized and efficient — they accepted Salen into their marching order without a single complaint but with several needling comments. She took them all as the good-natured teasing that they were intended to be. Any company that could keep another Dalish mage content was one that she was willing to give the benefit of the doubt. No one had called her knife-ear yet. Instead, two flasks of vastly different alcohol were passed along the line and the Chargers lifted their voices in marching songs to keep pace and make the time pass. Salen noted with amusement that the dark haired elven throat cutter was singing the same song but in Orlesian, and the Dalish mage was replacing many of the words with the most creative elven swearing she could think of. When a particularly graphic phrase came up about halla and the various potential uses of her horns, Salen caught the other woman grinning in her direction and laughed. Obviously, she was hoping for an audience who could understand her. Despite her lack of vallaslin, her armor and staff had given Salen away. The other mage dropped back to walk with her at that point, and they began the painstaking task of trying to determine if their respective clans had ever encountered one another.

At least, that’s what should have been happening. The other mage introduced herself as “Dalish” and nothing Salen said would convince her to give her name or the name of her clan — instead she asked after Salen’s clan and kin, grinning all the while.

“As Dalish traditions go,” Dalish said. “This is my favorite kind.”

Salen snorted, “The tradition of completely evading questions while needling information out of other people?”

Dalish laughed, “That too.”

Salen shook her head and took a stab at guessing the right answer, “You have your vallaslin, which means you were either apprenticed to your keeper very early or you were with your clan until adulthood. If the former, you could be from any number of clans. If the latter, then you would need to be from a clan close to wherever your mercenary company is based.”

Dalish looked delighted, and Krem helpfully added that the Bull’s Chargers were, apparently, based out of Val Royeaux. 

“So, a clan in the Dales, and if you were an adult when you left then that would only have been a few years ago.” Salen frowned as Dalish’s grin grew wider. “ _Lethallan_ , I can’t tell if you’re doing that because I’m right, or because you think I’m full of shit.”

Dalish threw her head back and laughed as several hands clapped Salen on the shoulder in commiseration.

Krem gave her a sympathetic look. “Honestly, none of us have ever figured it out either.”

The conversation continued in this vein until the sun finally set over Lake Calenhad — they were traveling due south now, following the road as it skirted the highlands before sweeping up toward Haven. The Bull’s Chargers meandered along the road for a few miles more before heading into the trees. Salen followed close behind Dalish and the dark haired elven woman who went by Skinner. She also refused to give her name, but her accent was heavily Orlesian. The trees opened up after a few paces and a well organized camp greeted them. Several soldiers nearby stood to meet the Bull’s Chargers and Salen allowed herself to be carried forward in their wake. Flags with the eye of the Inquisition adorned various tents and standard poles around the clearing, and Salen studied them with interest. Alone on the road, she hadn’t been able to talk with these men and women safely. As part of the Bull’s Chargers, she could walk among them without concern. 

The soldiers around her looked green — their armor was immaculate and their shields all newly shaped. It should not have been terribly surprising, the humans had only reformed their Inquisition less than a month ago, but Salen had expected templar veterans and religious zealots like those that had inhabited the Circle. Clearly, this was not the case. These soldiers were fresh and cheerful, round-faced and humorous. They greeted the Bull’s Chargers with enthusiasm and welcomed them in like the better and more experienced group that they were. Salen let Dalish pull her along. The Bull’s Chargers set up their tents along the southern edge of the camp, and Salen gratefully laid out her furs near an already built fire. Dalish dug a flint from her belt pouch and began the arduous process of getting the kindling to catch. Salen snorted. The other woman staunchly insisted that she was not a mage despite all evidence to the contrary and her fellow mercenaries’ teasing. 

The camp settled down and several of the Inquisition soldiers and scouts crammed themselves in beside the Bull’s Chargers — Salen placed herself between Dalish and Krem where she could see the others clearly and put her back to a sturdy rowan tree. She shrugged one of her pelts over her shoulders to keep out the chill, and accepted a bowl of hot soup gratefully. The spices were unfamiliar, but the gamey rabbit and root vegetables were welcome. She passed over the bread and cheese. It had been long enough since she’d eaten anything but fresh game and whatever vegetables and fruit the clan could find that she didn’t want to risk her stomach. Grain was very uncommon for the clans as they never stayed in one place long enough to farm. Occasionally, they would find a human village willing to trade with them, but it was rare enough that none of them got accustomed to bread or milk. The halla produced milk of course, but only for their offspring. It didn’t occur to the Dalish to drink it. 

Wine, however, her clan was quite fond of, and she accepted the wineskin making its way around the fire gratefully. She took a drink and passed it along, listening to the conversations around her. 

“Skinner, how many did you get back there,” Krem was asking. The elven woman looked up from the huge chunk of bread she was currently ripping in half to soak in her bowl.

“Six,” she replied. Stitches snorted, and she gestured at him rudely. 

“It doesn’t count when you’re the throat cutter, Skinner,” the healer insisted. 

“Then what’s the point of cutting their throats,” she returned evenly, popping a large chunk of rabbit into her mouth. Her accent got even thicker as she tried to talk around it, “I killed them. I get the count.”

“If you’re cutting throats when they’re already bleeding out, it doesn’t count,” Krem told her. 

“What if they’re twitching?”

“That depends on if someone’s caved their skull in, doesn’t it?”

“Bah,” Skinner dismissed the lot of them. “Fucking shems and your stupid rules.”

“ _Vindhru_ ,” Daish added with a grin. Skinner glared at her for a moment, unsure if Dalish was agreeing or not, before raising her middle finger and returning to her meal. The other mercenaries laughed. 

“Did you all come across more mages, then,” one of the Inquisition soldiers asked in a thick Starkhaven brogue. 

Krem shook his head, “Templars.”

The Inquisition man spat, “Bloody world’s gone tits up.”

“You can say that again,” the Iron Bull agreed, finishing off the last of the wine. “I haven’t seen any rifts along the road since we left the Storm Coast. Has the Herald been through?”

“Aye,” returned the Starkhaven soldier. “He and the Seeker came through not a week ago on their way to Val Royeaux. Going to meet the Chantry whatsits that are causing trouble in the capital.”

“Fucking Orlesians,” another solider put in. Her accent marked her as Ferelden, and the grey in her hair marked her as much older than the majority of the soldiers in the camp.

“Here, here,” Krem agreed. Skinner looked up from her bowl long enough to throw a chunk of bread at him.

Salen leaned forward, “What’s the Herald like?” She had heard about the Herald of Andraste as she crossed the Waking Sea and made her way through Highever. The man was supposed to be the only person able to close the rifts that were spilling demons out into the countryside, and he was also rumored to be an elf; a Dalish elf. She was certain it was Faron, but had not had a chance to confirm that suspicion. It would certainly explain why the humans were holding him. A lone Dalish hunter would be of no use to them, but if he was their only way to close the rifts, he would be a valuable captive indeed. The stories she’d heard said that the Herald was marked in some way and that was what allowed him to interact with the rifts. Salen knew of nothing in this world which would give a non-mage the ability to interact with the Fade as the Herald could, but she also knew of no mage who could affect the rifts either.

The Ferelden soldier answered, her voice low and reverent, “I was in Haven when the Herald woke up. He was swaying on his feet from going so long without any food or water or proper rest. Seeker Cassandra had his hands tied while she led him through the village, but she was near holding him up the whole time. We all thought he did it. We were ready to string him up, but he didn’t even flinch. My wife was one of the scouts sent up into the mines around the temple, and they got caught with a rift between them and the way back to Haven. They fought for hours against wave after wave of demons. They were all ready to drop. Leana told me she was ready to let some demon kill her just so she could lay down. The Herald appeared just as they were all ready to give in. He killed the demons and closed the rift, and then sent them back to recover while he pressed on to the Breach. I wasn’t there when he closed it, but we all remember the shockwave that hit the valley when he stopped the Breach from getting any bigger. Every soldier and pilgrim able to stand lined the streets when he was carried back into Haven. We all owe him our lives.”

A long moment of silence met this tale, and Salen studied the woman. “He sounds like he was exactly what you needed.”

“When we needed it, aye,” the Starkhaven soldier added, nodding. “When the Seeker and Sister Nightingale announced the Inquisition, the Herald stood up there with them as proud and tall as any lord.”

“He’s got the Left and Right Hands of the Divine with him,” another soldier added. “And Seeker Cassandra to guard him at all hours of the day.”

The Iron Bull chuckled at that, “She’ll get a break here soon.”

An elven woman dressed in leather raised her voice, “Did you all see that Varric Tethras is with him? The author? Didn’t he write The Tale of the Champion?”

“You read the rest of Master Tethras’ books, Basil? You’ve got a bit of a flush going there. Isn’t he the one what writes those trashy romance novels you love so much,” the Starkhaven soldier teased.

The elven woman flushed to the tips of her ears, “Keep it up, Tavish. I’ll shove you out of a tree the next time we’re out there.”

“What was the name of that elven mage,” another soldier asked suddenly. Salen and Dalish glanced at one another but the man continued without looking their way. “The bald man with the fur ‘round his shoulders.”

“That was Ser Solas,” the Ferelden woman replied. 

“Ser?” The Starkhaven man laughed. “He's an elven mage. He holds no title.”

The other soldier frowned at him — she was his senior by at least twenty years and the armor beneath her Inquisition tabard bore criss-crossing score marks and scuffs. Salen leaned forward with interest. 

“Any apostate willing to approach Seeker Cassandra and offer his services is a damn sight braver and better than you lot of glory hounds,” the woman admonished. “He's strange, aye, but that doesn't give you any right to judge him. The Maker sent us the Herald. Who's to say that he didn't send us Ser Solas as well?”

The younger soldiers, well-scolded, grumbled in something like agreement. 

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

They retreated to their bedrolls not long after that — most disappeared within the walls of their tents, but Salen declined all offers of tent space. Ten years living in aravels and sleeping around fires made her reluctant to test her ability to handle small spaces. Scouts kept watch over the camp as everyone settled in, and Salen felt herself drifting off almost immediately despite the proximity of so many unknown soldiers. Her mind had missed the comforting sounds of a camp filled with other people. 

The Fade greeted her with a path of flowering trees — the similarity was not lost on her, and she followed the path slowly, brushing her fingers along the bark of each. The path wound down a hill and around to another before the dirt beneath her feet became stone, and the path grew wider before climbing the hill in a series of steps. Crowning the hill was a single building built from pale grey stone. It had nine sides each graced with an elaborately and uniquely carved arch. Salen climbed the stairs and stopped before the steps of the closest archway.

Within the archway stood an elven man in robes detailed with golden embroidery. He was fair-skinned with dark hair drawn into a braid down his back. Freckles covered his nose over a full mouth and a square jaw. When she had first met him, she had believed him to be the most handsome man she had ever seen.

Salen stopped just before the stairs and bowed once before her face split into a smile — the elven man returned the gesture. He greeted her as he always did. “ _Vhalla ma, da’len_.”

“ _Evanuras em, haren_ ,” she did not reach out to him as she might have — she knew now that, despite his appearance, her _haren_ was not an elven man but a spirit of the Fade. What kind of spirit he would never tell her, and she had yet to settle on an answer for herself. She had been wary of him when he had first interrupted her nightmares in the Circle, but years of time between them had erased all concern for his intentions. He was a spirit, and he wished to share his wisdom and knowledge with her. He would do what his nature bid him regardless of her influence. 

“I am pleased to see you have found traveling companions capable of watching over you as you sleep. I have regretted your absence these past weeks,” he said.

She smiled, “I have missed you too, _haren._ ”

The spirit nodded back to her. “ _Da’len,_ I must ask you to forgive me.”

“I’m not sure what I am to forgive you for, _haren,_ ” Salen returned, surprised.

The spirit seemed to consider her for a moment — like all of its kind, human emotions were not well-emulated or well-received unless they happened to relate directly to the spirit’s nature. It could not express concern or remorse the same way another elf might, but Salen got the sense that it was struggling with what to say next. It could be that she was simply filling this in as her mortal mind tried to give context to their interactions. In the same way, she referred to her _haren_ as male when spirits were without sex. 

He took the steps down into the grass, his robes sweeping behind him. Salen moved to join him and he continued. “You were banished from your clan. This is, in part, because of the knowledge that I have shared with you.” Salen did not try to protest this. The spirit was stating a fact, not seeking comfort. If he had not taught her as he did, she would still be another mage in the Circle Tower, or perhaps she would simply be dead. “Those actions led you here, and you must continue on to the village in the mountains. There you will find your kin, but you will also find danger.”

Salen frowned, “The world is full of danger, _haren_. How is this Inquisition any different?”

“I do not believe that this Inquisition will pose any danger to you, _da’len_. There is an older power at work here.”

“Older?”

“Far older,” the spirit turned to face her, its expression as neutral as before. “Do you recall the things I taught you about the Elvhenan and the fall of their empire?”

Salen nodded. She had been twenty when the Circle of Magi in Ferelden had put her through her Harrowing. Her time in the Circle had made her a strong healer with some talent for ice magic, but had not given her the abilities she could now wield. The First Enchanter had been concerned with her lack of skill, but the Knight-Commander had refused to let her wait any longer. Unknown to them both was that Salen’s Harrowing was not the first time in her life that she had explored the Fade with her conscious mind. Her _haren_ had been visiting her for nearly seven years by that time. Her Harrowing had been a farce. Her _haren_ had simply taken them elsewhere in the Fade. 

It was during her Harrowing that her _haren_ had told her the truth of what had happened to the elven empire — the story spoke to some deep park of herself that trembled and thrashed with rage at the injustice. This was compounded by Marethari and Deshanna both rejecting this history as nothing more than a twisting of their own legends. It was the catalyst which had sparked the near constant arguments with each of her previous keepers. Every bit of knowledge that her _haren_ shared with her had been wasted on her clan. Without vallaslin on her face she was an outsider no matter the magic she carried or the family that claimed her. The only person who had ever listened to her speak was Faron. It had earned him the ire of the keeper, his peers, and his younger half-siblings who were Deshanna’s grandchildren and Firsts. 

Salen looked up at her _haren_ as he spoke, “The Dalish paint Fen’Harel as a simple liar who delights in the chaos he causes; a trickster god with no remorse who is always hunting for new prey. In truth, he was never a god. None of the elven "gods" were divine. Only powerful leaders and paragons of virtue to the People. Fen'Harel once stood beside them, but time and greed turned him to lesser pursuits. He enslaved his followers and began a war among the people that lasted for centuries. Mythal tried to reason with him and begged him to stop his torments. The Dread Wolf killed her as she knelt before him, laughing all the while. The _evanuris_ joined together to stop him. In a battle that lasted months, the elven people fought for their freedom, but in the end it was all for naught. Fen’Harel invited the _evanuris_ to his temple under the guise of peace talks, but he deceived them. The temple was a trap and Fen’Harel used it to cast them deep within the Fade where they now wait in _uthenera_ for time unending. Fen'Harel’s actions were abhorrent and anathema to nature. In deceiving the _evanuris,_ he destroyed the very reality upon which Elvhenan was created. The empire fell and the quickening came to deprive the elven people of their power and immortality. By the rise of the Tevinter Imperium, Arlathan was a mere shadow of itself, and it fell easily to the human’s magic.” The spirit bowed his head as if grief had taken hold of him.

Salen looked up at the archway overhead and followed the intricate shapes of the halla carved there. “I remember, _haren_ ,” she said softly.

“Fen'Harel did not die after he trapped the _evanuris_. He retreated into _uthenera,_ but the magic he had used was so great that he slept far longer than any before him.” The spirit gazed at her impassively, “Fen’Harel has awakened, _da’len_. He will be waiting for you, and I fear that the Inquisition is where he will hide.”

Salen startled and took a step back. “Waiting for me?”

“Yes, _da’len._ You are the only living being who knows him for what he truly is. The spirits who recall his actions cannot act against our own natures, and he would simply cut us down if we were to try. Only a mortal can kill him, and you are the only mortal who would think to attempt it.”

Salen shook her head, her stomach felt as though it had dropped into her toes,“I have no intentions of killing anyone, _haren_. I just want to free my nephew and leave the humans to their war.”

The spirit shook its head, “You know that you cannot do that. The tears in the Veil threaten all of creation. Spirits and mortals alike will be destroyed if it is not contained.”

“I cannot affect the rifts, _haren_ ,” she returned.

“But you now know that your nephew can,” the spirit countered evenly. “For the world to endure, Faron must stay with the humans, but for him to succeed you must stay with him.”

“I am one woman,” Salen bit out. 

“One woman who carries the knowledge of ages within her,” the spirit returned. “When I offered you the knowledge, you were told that the knowing came with an obligation to a greater power.”

“You also told me that there are no gods.”

“To think that the only thing greater than a mortal woman is the divine would be an exercise in folly.”

Salen turned these words over in her head. Her _haren_ was right. She could not leave Faron alone, nor could she take him away from the humans. She had agreed to the burden of knowledge when the spirit had first approached her. She had given her word. 

“Forgive me, _haren_ ,” Salen bowed her head. “I am frightened.” She raised her hands and found that they were shaking.

The spirit did something that it had only done one other time in her life, it reached out to place its hand on her head. As it did the weight of thousands of years of time settled onto her shoulders. Salen dropped to her knees with a gasp. Kneeling at the spirit's feet she felt tears fill her eyes. Whenever she made contact with the spirit in any way, the sorrow that filled her was nearly overwhelming. 

“ _Haren_ ,” she asked, staring straight ahead. “How will I know him? Fen’Harel?”

“He is a trickster, _da’len._ You will not know him, but you need to find him before he catches you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I see the word "evanuris," I remember learning that the root word is "evanur/a" which means "honor," and all I can think of is Solas with a Zuko-like scar shaking his fist at Lavellan and shouting "EVANURA'MA!"
> 
> Elvhen language credits go to Project Elvhen
> 
> lethallan/lethallin - "kinsman"  
> vindhru - "truth"  
> da’len - "young one/child" affectionate title for a younger person  
> haren - "elder" respectful title for someone who is older or who is a teacher  
> evanuris - "honored one" the title the Elvhen used for the elven pantheon  
> uthenera - "eternal waking dream" the name for the thing the elves do when they sleep for a long time and tell everyone else to fuck off (this honestly sound super attractive lately)  
> Vhalla ma, da’len - "I welcome you, child/student"  
> Evanuras em, haren - "You honor me, elder/teacher"
> 
> First chapters always feel slow to me, but I enjoyed writing this one. Also, I love Dalish. The character. I mean, also the people, but you get it. I really want to know more about her. I have this headcannon that she was part of Clan Virnehn but noped the fuck out before the events of The Masked Empire. 
> 
> Yes, there is a nod to LOTR in this chapter. Tolkien and Peter Jackson are the true gods. Fight me.
> 
> The next chapter will be an interlude/flashback. I'll be posting two chapters at a time from here on out to give you a chapter of flashback and a chapter of the current story with each update. 
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you see anything weird going on. I've plotted all this out as close to the actual Dragon Age timeline as possible, but I am one person who is often wrong. I've also been using this AMAZING timeline for reference when writing, and I am eternally grateful for its existence: http://www.dumpeddrunkanddalish.com/2018/10/the-ultimate-dragon-age-timeline-from.html


	3. A Ball of Slush

Ffiona 9:14 Dragon

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The day that Kallian left was the day that changed all of their lives forever — Ffiona crouched in the back room of their home with Liam held tightly in her arms. The little boy was sobbing into her tunic. The fighting was frightening, and Liam had only just passed his sixth name day. Ffiona grit her teeth and tightened her arms around him. She would not cry. She was ten, soon to be eleven, and she would not cry over this. 

The front room of their home had become a battle zone. Kallian stood on one side of the long table while  _ papae _ stood on the other and bellowed. Ffiona had heard her father yell many times in her life, but it had always been from delight or the simple need to be heard over everything else happening in the alienage. This was not like that. Her father's face was red with anger, and his face streaked with tears, and the things he yelled were  _ mean _ . 

_ Mamae _ had been trying to calm them down for hours now — she had moved nervously from one to the other speaking in a soft voice. Ffiona wasn't sure either of them had heard anything she said over their own argument.  _ Mamae _ had left over an hour ago to find their elder, and she had yet to return. 

Liam whimpered in her arms and Ffiona shushed him softly — the yelling in the other room had died down into sharp words instead. They were quiet enough that she could almost block them out. Ffiona cradled her little brother in her lap and rocked him back and forth. Her mother's stories ran through her mind, and she found her favorite one to tell. Liam had heard it many, many times, but he quieted when she began to speak. 

“Years ago, when we were very small, the Grey Warden, Duncan, led a battle in the far south. The Wilds were full of witches, demons, and ghouls, that would frighten off other folk but not the Grey Wardens. For their bitter enemy lay deep within the Wilds –”

“The darkspawn,” Liam interrupted, looking up at her with a year stained face. 

“Yes,” Ffiona said as patiently as the middle child of three could. “Now don't interrupt.”

Satisfied by Liam’s appropriately remorseful expression, she continued. “The Wardens departed Denerim in a parade of color. The women that lined the roads, wept and tossed flowers at the feet of the Grey Warden horses. The men stood straight and tall, each hoping to have the honor of joining the Grey Wardens some day.”

“I wanna be a Grey Warden,” Liam interjected. Ffiona stared at him until he ducked his head, embarrassed. 

“The children stood with their parents and gazed on in wonder as the men and women in grey rode by in shining armor and griffin wing helms. At the head of the company rode their commander as tall and proud as any king. Duncan, of the Grey Wardens, was the bravest man to join their ranks in an age. He was tall and dark and handsome. The women who watched him ride were all beside themselves to see him.”

Liam grumbled something about getting to the fighting and Ffiona shushed him — she had been only eight when Duncan had visited the alienage late in the fall. She remembered thinking him very strange and tall, but he had dark skin like she did. That had endeared him to her as no gift or kindness could. The other children in the alienage were all fair skinned like her father, and they teased her for it. She was too young to realize that their teasing was part of a bigger prejudice that existed in the world, that being not only an elf but a dark-skinned elf would find her ridicule at every turn of her life. Ffiona only knew that the other children were mean and that her  _ mamae _ , who was darker than even Duncan, was not teased. Once her initial fear of the tall man had passed, Ffiona had happily accepted the gifts he brought and sat with him as he told her story-after-story.

Older and wiser now, Ffiona understood that Duncan was not only kind and brave but handsome, and that was very important for her audience to understand. 

“Their valiant commander led them through the Bannorn and across the Hinterlands until at last they reached the edge of the Wilds,” she continued. “There they followed a game trail deep into the forest. The further they went the darker the sky became though it could not have been any later than midday. Wolves howled and snapped at their heels and witches cackled and shrieked in the air around them coming ever closer.”

Liam shivered, and Ffiona smiled, pleased with herself. “At last they came to their destination. Set deep into the side of a cliff stood a massive door carved with all sorts of odd shapes and glyphs. The door itself stood ajar and the foul stench of their enemy floated on the air. Before going any further, Duncan called his Wardens together. His lieutenant, an elven woman named Fiona –”

“Was not,” Liam interjected.

“Mamae said that Duncan traveled with another Warden named Fiona,” Ffiona insisted. “Besides, it’s not actually the same, and she’s Orlesian.” 

Liam made a rude noise at this last and settled back into her lap. 

“His lieutenant, Fiona, pulled a map from her cloak and spread it over the ground. It showed an ancient dwarven thaig deep beneath their feet. Duncan stepped forward and told them, ‘This mission is more important than any you have ever been part of. I could not speak of its true nature until now. The darkspawn have captured our king and only we Grey Wardens can rescue him.’”

Liam twisted in her arms. “That isn't the story. They’re supposed to rescue the griffins!”

Ffiona sighed and coughed. Dropping her voice to play Duncan always made her throat hurt. “I’m telling you a different story, dummy. Do you want to hear it or not?”

Liam assured her that he did want to hear it and promised not to interrupt again. 

Ffiona cleared her throat, “The Grey Wardens eagerly fell in behind their commander as he led them deep underground. The tunnels and caves that they passed through were dark and filled with bones. Each step they took crunched under their boots, and monsters lurked just outside the ring of their torches. The Wardens bravely moved forward without rest for three days and three nights. Finally, they came to a soaring palace beneath the earth built of black stone. The towers of the palace were twisted and sharp like the heads of snakes, and all around it glowed a fierce green light. Three of the Wardens stopped dead in their tracks unable to approach the black castle. A few steps later, three more froze in place. This went on until only Duncan and Fiona continued forward clinging to each other to ward off the fear —”

“Girl, you are going to give him nightmares.”

Ffiona looked up into her mother's big hazel eyes and grinned. Adaia huffed and crossed her arms, “The next time he wakes up crying, you get to put him back to sleep.”

She reached down and lifted Liam out of Ffiona’s lap — the girl stood and just about fell down again. Her legs were sore and her knees didn't want to work. “Are they done yelling  _ mamae _ ?”

Adaia’s smile fell, “I think so, pet. The elder came by to see your father. They’re out right now.”

Ffiona nodded.  _ Haren _ Valendrian knew everything. “Is what Kalli did really bad?”

Adaia bit her lip and crossed the room to sit on the edge of the bed that the children all shared. “It wasn't bad, Ffiona, just ill-considered. Sometimes adults make choices that we don't think through all the way and then bad things happen. When that happens other people can get hurt because we made a bad decision.”

“Do you make bad decisions,  _ mamae _ ,” Liam asked. 

Adaia looked straight ahead for a moment, “Sometimes, magpie.”

In the morning, Kallian was gone.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

It was only a few weeks later when Ffiona’s magic burst from her and terrorized the alienage — at least that's how Elva would describe the act of one small child throwing a handful of snow into her face in the middle of the summer heat. Elva’s children liked to pinch Ffiona’s skin and grab handfuls of her curly hair and yank until her eyes watered. Elva never corrected them even if she caught them in the act. Ffiona was the youngest of them, and she no longer had Kallian to hide behind. Since her sister’s disappearance Ffiona was subject to more and more ridicule, and her nightmares grew worse. Whenever the adults thought that she wasn't paying attention they would gossip about how her older sister had ruined herself and cast shame upon her family. They would always cut off abruptly if her father walked into the room, but grew louder and bolder if it was her mother instead. 

Ffiona was eleven and she couldn't cry about these things anymore — Liam cried almost every night, but her mother had told her that she was the eldest now so she could not cry. Instead she pushed it all down and forced herself to smile at the children who pinched her and pulled her hair, at the adults who whispered about her family behind her hands. 

She was too young to understand that pushing her feelings away wasn't getting rid of them, but bottling them up until they were ready to burst. 

It was Elva who finally pushed her over the edge — the woman had come out to the  _ vhenadahl _ where several of the alienage children were playing an elaborate game involving griffins and dragons. Ffiona was, of course, leading the griffins to victory as they leapt down from the tall roots of the  _ vhenadahl _ to defeat their enemies. She sank into a crouch at the end of her next jump and was immediately attacked from behind. She and her attacker tumbled forward kicking and flailing, when someone grabbed Ffiona by her hair and hauled her upright. Sobbing the girl tried to pull away but the hand just tightened its grip and shook her. On the ground a few feet away crouched Elva’s youngest son wailing with a bloody nose. Ffiona cringed back and looked at the ground.

Elva didn't let her go for a full ten minutes as she ranted and raved and called Ffiona all sorts of nasty names that she didn't understand. The girl blinked back her tears and tried to remember that she wasn’t supposed to cry anymore. 

Finally, Elva let her go, and Ffiona stumbled away just as her  _ mamae _ came running up. Adaia dropped to her knees to inspect the girl before she turned and started yelling. 

Ffiona could never remember exactly what it was that set her off. She knew that Elva insulted her sister and her mother over-and-over again, and she couldn't keep all the anger and shame pushed away anymore. At one point, Adaia pulled away from her to duck a blow from the other woman, and Ffiona lost her temper. 

Ice sprang from her fingertips as she flew at Elva in a rage — her fists would have never done any damage by themselves but every place she touched blossomed with ice crystals. Hands grabbed her from behind, but she touched them and they let go. Elva was screaming. Finally, strong arms wrapped around her middle and lifted her off the woman. Ffiona tried to hit her on her stupid nose one last time but she was too far away. A ball of half-frozen slush struck the woman instead. 

Valendrian carried her back to her family's home, but wouldn't let her go no matter what she did. He wouldn't let her mother or father hold her either. Ffiona struggled against his hold until her  _ mamae _ begged her to stop. Feeling betrayed, Ffiona stopped fighting. 

The human men in armor came not long after that. They were even larger than Duncan had been, and they all bore the Chantry sunburst on their armor. Valendrian let her go but Ffiona shrank back into him. These men were templars. One of the men came forward and tried to pick her up. Ffiona screamed and snatched herself away. She tried to reach for her mother. Cyrion held Adaia in his arms, and the elven woman was sobbing. Cold hands closed around Ffiona's chest and hauled her back. The last thing she saw before the world went dark was Liam’s tear streaked face from behind their mother's skirts. 

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The journey to the Circle was the first time she had been outside the city of Denerim in her whole life. The templars wrapped her in a cloak with a length of rope tied around it to trap her hands. During the day they would put her on one of the horses with a templar behind her, and at night she slept curled up in her cloak with her feet tied together. If she cried or made noise they snapped at her, but they never struck her. 

They took her to a lake and then set her into a small boat — Ffiona thought that they were going to drop her into the lake and sobbed in fright. The sisters in the Chantry had told them all terrible stories about mages who tried to challenge the Maker. They were cast out as the first of the darkspawn and we're the source of the Blights. “Magic tried to destroy the world,” they said. “It is the Maker’s will that all mages be controlled to prevent further destruction. Magic exists to serve man and never to rule over him.”

Those words echoed in her head as the boat bumped up against a small dock in the center of the lake — an island rose from the water with a tall tower spiraling toward the clouds. Ffiona looked up until her neck hurt and still couldn't see the top. 

They led her through large metal doors that shut behind them with a loud clang. Waiting to greet them were two men. One was dressed in heavy armor like the other templars and Ffiona shrank back from him. The other was wearing long robes and clutched a staff in his hands. Despite herself, Ffiona felt a rush of curiosity.

The robed man stepped forward, “Welcome to the Circle of Magi, child.” He smiled, but it didn't seem to reach his eyes. “What is your name?”

Ffiona tried to step back but stumbled over the boots of the templar behind her. The robed man continued to smile. “It’s alright to be frightened but no one here is going to harm you. Tell me your name, and we can get you washed up and into the dining hall with the other apprentices.” 

Ffiona bit her lip, “My name’s Ffiona, ser. Ffiona Tabris.”

The robed man nodded in satisfaction. “Thank you, Ffiona. My name is First Enchanter Irving. You may call me First Enchanter. Now, let’s get you a bath and some dinner.” He held out his hand and, after a moment, Ffiona took it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has some minor – like really minor – spoilers for Dragon Age: The Calling, which is an excellent book, incidentally. The next chapter will be back to the actual story.
> 
> Also, the name "Ffiona" is a modification of the Welsh name "Ffion." A single "f" in Welsh is pronounced like a "v" and a double "f" is used to make the actual "f" sound. So, "Ffiona" is pronounced the same way that you would say "Fiona."


	4. Chapter 4

Salen 9:41 Dragon

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They rose late the next morning — many of the Bull’s Chargers were nursing hangovers which made them irritable and slow. Salen’s dreams had woken her very early that morning and no amount of trying would let her fall back asleep. She watched the others drag themselves from their tents and sipped elfroot tea to chase the last of the alcohol from her body. Her dreams after speaking to her  _ haren _ last night had been filled with dark and suffocatingly small places. Always with the black city at the end of whatever tunnel or hole she was in, beckoning her forward. No matter which way she turned it was the only way out. 

A wolf’s howl brought her out of her nightmares a few hours before dawn. Salen lay on her furs and listened to that lone voice rise and fall with sorrow. A single wolf, cut off from its pack would likely die unless it could find a new pack to accept it. Salen curled up on her side and whispered back, “ _ Dareth shiral, isa’ma’lin. _ ” 

Dalish dropped down beside Salen and added a handful of elfroot leaves to a pot before using magic to fill it. Another spell warmed the water to a boil and Dalish carefully nudged it away from the fire to steap. 

“Are you admitting to be a mage this morning,  _ lethallan _ ,” Salen teased.

Dalish grunted and shook her head, “These  _ shems _ are too hung over to tell the difference, and I’m too hungover to care.”

That set the mood for the rest of the morning — the Bull’s Chargers left the Inquisition camp to rejoin the road heading south while the Inquisition soldiers turned north. Hungover as they all were it was lucky that they encountered no trouble. It wasn't until midday that the Iron Bull dropped back to walk with her. The qunari joked with the other mercenaries and continued to needle Krem. Salen waited. 

After several minutes of this he finally turned his attention to her, “I never did catch your name.”

Salen raised an eyebrow, “I didn't think your company went in much for actual names.”

“Oh, we certainly do,” the Iron Bull returned smoothly. “It just remains to be seen whether or not we’re going to tell you.”

“You told me your name and Krem’s.”

“Well, sure,” he agreed. “You could have gotten my name from anyone, and Krem can keep an eye on you better if you’re inclined to already find him familiar. Also, he’s Tevinter. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't want to spend any time in Tevinter as an elf or a mage, and especially not as both.”

Salen frowned. “You told me Krem’s name so that I would feel comfortable?”

“Pretty much. Humans, elves, dwarves, qunari, we all feel better when we think we have an idea of who someone is. We categorize people, organize them kinda like books. If you don't know the title of a book, you can't figure out how to organize it with all the other books, but the moment you read the title, you think you know what the book is about. People do the same thing with other people. You don't know anything about Krem other than his name and the fact that he’s an asshole, but you're more comfortable than you would have been if all you knew was that last bit.” Iron Bull grinned as Krem gave a shout from the front of the column. Bull wasn't trying to keep his voice down. “So, I didn't catch your name.”

Salen shook her head, “Salen. Salen Lavellan.”

“Lavellan,” he said. “Are you related to the Herald then or just from the same Dalish clan?”

Salen gave him a sharp look and Bull started laughing. “You look more alike than you probably think. Same profile. Same eyes. Same way of standing like you might need to move at any moment. I take it he picked that up from you?”

Salen snorted, “Considering that wasn't a thing I knew that I did until just now, yes, probably.”

The Iron Bull hummed in agreement. “You’re a bit young to be his mother.”

“I’m not,” Salen said. “Faron is my older sister’s first born. She could not come herself, so I am here in her stead.”

“And what exactly are you planning to do here,” the Iron Bull asked. 

Salen looked up at him, “Make sure that my nephew is safe and ensure that he stays that way.”

“You gonna do that by force?”

Salen shook her head, “Faron is a grown man. I won't force him to do anything, but I will not abide others holding him against his will. If Faron stays with this Inquisition because he believes what he is doing is best, then I will respect that and help him.”

The Iron Bull studied her for a moment as though he was trying to catch her in a lie. She gazed back at him impassively. Finally, he straightened up and reached out to clap her on the back. “You’re alright, Curly.”

Salen grimaced, “Really? Curly?”

“What? It fits, doesn't it?”

“No wonder no one on your team tells you their real names.” The Chargers around her erupted into laughter. 

The next few days were simple and easy — Salen slept through the night and enjoyed the companionship of the Bull’s Chargers during the day. As they climbed higher and the road turned west toward Haven, she eventually accepted space in a tent between Skinner and Dalish so that she did not freeze at night. It was uncomfortable to have something blotting out the sky above her, but it did not cause her to panic as she feared it might, and the quiet breathing of the two women to either side was comfortingly familiar. Each morning after that first late start, the Bull’s Charges rose at dawn to train before setting off. Salen joined them and found that her sword work was embarrassingly bad. At one point, Krem knocked her sword out of her hand and sent her dancing backward. The Iron Bull picked it up and offered it back to her, the blade dwarfed by his hands.

“That's a templar’s sword,” he said in a conversational tone. 

“Yes,” she agreed, returning it to the sheath on her belt. 

“Wanna tell me how you came by that,” the Iron Bull said. 

She shrugged. “I was at the Circle Tower in Ferelden until the Blight. Afterward, templars came looking for me. They still had my phylactery. My clan killed them. We decided not to waste their weapons.”

Bull’s face was impassive. “How long ago?”

“Eight years.”

He nodded. “You need a better sword. That one’s too long and too heavy for you.”

Salen laughed. “If you have a new one lying around, by all means.”

“I don't,” Bull replied. “But I bet our friends in Haven will have a few available.” He nodded to her staff, “How are you with that?”

“I’m a mage; I can use a staff.”

“Show me.”

That’s how Salen ended up walking with a bruised backside for the next three days — the Chargers made a lot of snide comments about it, but they mostly seemed to be directed at the Iron Bull’s habitual promiscuity. 

“Aye, boss! Don’t you usually buy them dinner before you set ‘em walking funny?”

“You could have at least brought her some flowers!”

“If you need some space, we can walk slower and give you two some time to catch up!”

“Hey, chief, you gotta stop breaking the Inquisition’s toys!”

Salen snorted and redesigned herself to being the butt of every joke from now until at least the end of the next month. The good-natured teasing reminded her of happier days with her clan, before her decision to forgo vallaslin had  _ branded _ her forever as an outsider. The Iron Bull grinned and nudged her, an act which had her scrambling to keep her balance, and said, “I think they might like you, Curly.”

Salen rolled her eyes and picked up the pace. 

A little less than a week later, the Chargers crested a rise to see Haven laid out in the valley below them — they were all in good spirits though they were also much colder than they had been in the highlands. They swept through the tall gates like a wave and split off into two groups, one to find the privies and baths, and the other to find the tavern. 

The Iron Bull pulled her aside before she could decide where to go next and led her toward a human in heavy armor and a long cloak. He introduced himself as Ser Rylen, and listened as the Iron Bull explained their presence. Rylen nodded once, “The Herald told us to expect you. The Chargers are welcome to set up their tents in the valley with the rest of our forces. Sister Nightingale would like to speak with you personally as soon as you’re settled. You'll find her in the tent just in front of the Chantry doors.”

Bull agreed to seek the sister out and gestured to Salen. “Got another fighter to join the Inquisition forces.”

Rylen seemed to size her up as Salen resisted the desire to either flee or hit the Iron Bull over the head with her staff. 

“You’re a mage,” the man said bluntly, and Salen gritted her teeth as she felt a brush against the Veil. 

“You’re a templar,” she replied. 

Rylen surprised her by laughing, “Is this the part where we kill each other, then?”

“Seems like there's a lot of that happening.”

Rylen snorted and waved his hands, “Aye, and that’s what we’re here to fix. Alright. Let's see what you can do.”

Half an hour later, Salen had stripped down to just her shirt and pants and was sweating profusely. Her braid had come undone and her curls were sticking to her neck. She wiped sweat from her face as Rylen finally called a halt. Throughout the whole exercise the templar hadn't even been trying to keep up, and she still didn’t manage to hit him once. Shaking her head, she sheathed her sword and brushed as much of the mud from her breeches as she could.

A waterskin was offered to her and after a moment's hesitation, she took it. Rylen leaned against the nearest post and watched her for a moment. “Iron Bull said you have some skill with a staff beyond simply using it for spellwork, and your swordplay isn't bad.”

Salen raised an eyebrow and Rylen laughed. “I’m being honest. I’ve tested so many scullery maids and farm boys with swords lately, and you couldn’t have been any worse than any of them.”

“Thanks,” Salen replied, lobbing the waterskin at his chest. 

Rylen caught it with a grin. “You would probably do better with a smaller sword. The one you have is a bit too long and heavy. A human man could wield it comfortably, but it’ll never be anything but awkward for you.” He waved toward the building on the opposite side of the field. “That’s the blacksmith. Once you’re officially enlisted, we’ll get you something better to use.” He held up his hand to keep her from leaving just yet, “If you’re actually wanting to enlist, you'll need to see the Commander and get the paperwork done. He’s usually in the Chantry at this time of day, door at the back of the hall. I would go with you, but I have recruits to bully.”

Salen rolled her eyes. “Because that definitely makes me want to sign up.” Rylen grinned and waved her out of the practice ring. 

She shrugged back into her leather jerkin and cloak, shuddering as the material slid over the dried sweat on her skin. Salen glanced toward the blacksmith, and then to the gates leading into Haven. From what the scouts at the highlands had said, Faron was away from Haven with a small group and would likely be in Val Royeaux for some time arguing with the clerics. She could stay with the Chargers while she waited and ignore this Inquisition altogether, or she could learn more about what it was actually trying to accomplish.

Making her decision, Salen passed through the gates of Haven and up the steps. The buildings in the village were a mix of very new and very old, and all of them were constructed from raw wood planks. A mix of humans in armor and Chantry robes were milling around with the occasional elf or dwarf passing by. Salen followed the path up and around a brightly lit building which could on be the tavern, and soon came to a large stone hall which had to be the Chantry. It was very different from the cathedral in Denerim, looking far more squat and hardy, but the sunbursts worked into the stone were hardly subtle.

Salen pushed open the doors and was pleasantly surprised by the rush of warm air — most of the chantry was dominated by the large hall that she stood in now. Columns lined either side and three doors were tucked into the opposite end behind a towering statue of Andraste. She continued forward and stopped just short of the statue, gazing up. The humans always made their prophet look so grim and disapproving when they carved her. Salen had always hated entering the Chantry in Denerim and even in the Circle for that reason, among others. With a smile, she remembered the white stone statue she had found on her way here. If someone had carved a god with kind eyes and a handsome face, she might be more inclined to listen to them. 

To the right of the statue was a single door set into the stone — from Rylen’s directions, Salen judged this to be her destination. Feeling out of sorts after so long with only an aravel between her and the people of her clan, Salen knocked lightly. 

A tight voice bid her enter and Salen slipped through the door before closing it behind her — the room was lined with shelves of books and a single table stood in the center. The table was covered in maps and books, as well as small icons she assumed were to represent Inquisition forces and assets. It reminded her of the Grey Warden tales her mother used to tell. 

Standing opposite her was a human man in heavy armor and a fur ruff. He was studying several pieces of parchment all laid out on the table in front of him. Salen had to assume that this was the Commander that Rylen mentioned.

After a moment, the man seemed to finish reading the parchment in front of him and drew himself up to face her. 

Salen felt her stomach sink — she snatched up her staff just as the man drew his sword and threw his other hand out toward her. She flinched and closed her eyes. Salen braced herself for the nausea and loss of coordination that would come with having her magic drained by a templar.

After a moment, she felt foolish. A moment longer and it was quite clear that he did as well. He cleared his throat and carefully sheathed his sword again. “Enchanter Tabris,” he said. “I apologise if I frightened you.”

Salen grimaced, “You’ve done a lot more than frighten me, templar.”

Eleven years ago during the worst of her memories in the Circle, this templar had demanded her death, and he had nearly gotten his way. Salen’s little brother had saved her life that day, and he was the only reason she was standing there now. 

Cullen flinched. “I know,” he said softly. “I thought the Grey Wardens conscripted you?”

Salen still hadn't lowered her staff. “Only to get me away from you.”

She saw him swallow uncomfortably. “For what it’s worth, I regret my part in that and the things that I said that day. It was unworthy of me.” He reached up to rub the back of his neck. It was a gesture she has once found endearing, but it rankled now. “I am glad that you were able to escape.”

Salen didn't reply. 

Cullen sighed and dropped his hand. “Can we pretend that you just walked in that door, and you’re only here to ask me whatever it is you're here to ask?”

“What are you doing here,” Salen asked instead

Cullen frowned. “Serving the Inquisition, as I’ve been asked to do.”

Salen took a step back and returned the butt of her staff to the ground. “Ser Rylen told me to report to the Commander of the Inquisition forces. So, here I am.”

His expression changed to one of surprise, “You want to enlist?”

“What I want is to find my sister’s son,” Salen told him. “Your Inquisition is holding him.”

“We have no prisoners, Tabris –”

“That is not my name,” she snapped.

Cullen held up his hands in defeat. “Very well. Who are you looking for?”

“Faron Lavellan.”

“Faron? You can't be serious,” Cullen said. 

“I am very serious, templar.”

“That,” he interjected, “is not my name either.”

There was a long pause, and Cullen sighed scrubbing his hand over his face. “Faron is not our prisoner. He joined the Inquisition voluntarily, and he is helping us restore order.”

Salen considered this. “Very well. I take it he is still in Val Royeaux?”

Cullen grimaced. “Why am I not surprised that you know that? Yes. He is in Val Royeaux with several companions to ensure he returns to us safely.”

Salen nodded. “Thank you,” she paused. “Cullen?”

“Commander would be the correct address,” he replied. 

“Thank you, Commander.”

“Of course, was there anything else?”

“I would like to help my nephew,” Salen told him. “I am here, specifically, to do that. Ser Rylen has informed me that my sword is the wrong size and that I should request a new one from the blacksmith. To do that, he said I would need to be an enlisted part of the Inquisition first.”

Cullen nodded. “I imagine that since Faron is your nephew, he may want you with him rather than having you fight with the other mages or soldiers.”

“I would certainly prefer that.”

“Understandably so,” Cullen sorted through the parchment on the desk in front of him. “The Herald should return in two weeks time. May I see your current blade?”

Salen untied the sheath from her belt and pasted it over the table. Cullen drew the sword and weighed it in his hand before a deep frown crossed his face. “This is a templar’s sword. A templar from Kinloch Hold.”

“Yes,” she said. 

His jaw clenched. “How did you get it?”

“A templar tried to kill me, and I killed him first,  _ Commander _ . Would you prefer that I let him cut me down?”

He flinched. “No. Of course not.” He returned the blade to its sheath. “The metal is brittle, but Harritt may be able to use it for other things still. If you’re willing, you can give it to Harritt in exchange for a new blade.” He offered it back to her. 

Salen reattached the blade to her belt and turned to leave. “I’ll do that.” 

“Tabris?” She glanced back and saw him flush. “My apologies,” he said. “How should I address you?”

“My name is Salen, Commander. And I would appreciate being addressed as such.”

“Of course,” he replied. “Salen. May I ask, do you know what happened to –,” he hesitated. “Do you know if Solona is still alive?”

Salen paused. She was genuinely surprised by the question. “Why do you care,” she asked. 

“I – nevermind,” he drew himself up. “My apologies for keeping you.”

Salen nodded and left him alone. 

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The blacksmith was a burly human with a large beard who accepted her old sword with a grunt and directed her to a row of blades against the back wall. Salen picked through the rack, hunting for one that didn’t feel strange in her hands after so many years carrying the templar sword. She settled on one that was just a little longer than her outstretched arm, with a simple crossguard and leather-wrapped hilt. One of the smiths cut a length of leather for a sheath and handed her a thick needle and leather cord. Salen took this to one of the many bonfires burning around Haven to ward off the chill and began slowly stitching the leather shut so that it would form a sheath. 

The Iron Bull found her there a little later on and dropped down beside her. “I see you managed to talk your way into a new sword.” Salen nodded without looking up from her stitching. “Did you give it a name yet?” 

Salen snorted. “Have you named yours?”

“Depends on who’s asking.” Salen glanced up to find him reclined along the ground and with a wide grin on his face. She frowned before the innuendo in his response donned on her. “ _ Su an’banal i’ma _ — how does anyone in your company actually stand to be around you?”

The Iron Bull shrugged. “Gotta ask them.” He stood. “Come on, time to show me what you can really do with that sword.”

The next few days followed a similar pattern — Salen would sleep in a tent crammed between Dalish and Skinner, join the Chargers for their morning training, and then stumbled into the tavern to break her fast. Her afternoons were spent hunting and exploring the surrounding countryside while staying as far away from the ruins of the temple as she possibly could. Her routine also had the benefit of allowing her to avoid interacting with Cullen completely. Rylen attempted to get her attention more than once but she ignored the templar until he finally seemed to give up. Her evenings would typically be spent in the tavern with the Chargers or outside near one of the fires. 

About a week and a half after her arrival in Haven, there was a commotion at the front gates. Salen stood on the steps by the apothecary to avoid the press of people and watched as four travelers staggered through. Her heart lifted as Faron’s face came into view. He looked exhausted and thinner than was usual, but he did not seem frightened or upset. He ignored the crowd around him and headed for one of the newly built cabins on the southern side of Haven. His companions continued on into the village. 

Salen watched one of them with particular interest as he approached her — the soldiers in the highlands had mentioned an elven mage traveling with the Herald, and she had to assume this was he. He wore a patched cloak with a wolf fur ruff over breeches and a long tunic. His clothing was of human construction, and it had been repaired many times judging by the number of visible stitches. 

He looked up at her just as he took the first of the steps to the apothecary — his eyes were pale violet and deeply set above high cheekbones. He struck her as familiar, but she could not place him. For a moment, they simply regarded one another in wary silence. 

Salen stepped down and extended her hand to him, “Good evening,  _ alin _ .” His expression showed surprise, but he reached out to clasp her wrist. “You are Solas?”

He frowned. “I am,” he said. “I find it curious that you know my name, but I am certain that I would recall having met you.” 

Salen smiled in response. “Your Inquisition soldiers have loose tongues, Solas.” 

“I cannot say that I am surprised by that,” he returned evenly. 

She continued down the steps and stopped beside him. “They’re treating him well? Faron? The humans aren’t forcing him to be here?”

Solas studied her for a moment before answering, “No more than you or I are being forced to be here. This threat endangers us all.”

She nodded her eyes already moving to the wooden cabin where Faron had disappeared, “Thank you, Solas.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Salen tapped lightly on the door and waited until Faron’s voice called her in — the cabin was quite small but newly constructed and a bed was tucked into one corner with a pile of pelts on the floor beside it. The bed looked unused, and it made her smile. 

Faron was standing in front of a basin washing road dust from his hands and face. He glanced up as she stepped in and froze. Water dripped down his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. Salen smiled at him and extended her hands, “Hello,  _ da’len _ .”

Faron seemed to shrink back into the uncertain teenager he had been when she first met him. He stepped close and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. Salen returned the embrace and reached up to stroke his hair. They stayed that way for a long moment before Faron laughed and stepped back, keeping his hands on her shoulders as if he were afraid she would disappear. 

His voice shook. “ _ Ma’asa’ma’lin _ , what are you doing here? Is  _ mamae _ alright? Did something happen?”

Salen shook her head, “I am here to find you,  _ da’len _ . Your mother is fine. The clan is safe on the outskirts of Wycome where they can best avoid the fighting.”

“Did the keeper send you?”

Salen laughed. “No. No, Deshanna did not send me. We had something of a fight.”

Faron shook his head at that. “ _ Ma’asa’ma’lin _ , you are always having fights with the keeper.”

Salen snorted. “I would not fight with the keeper so much if she did not insist on being so difficult.” 

Faron raised an eyebrow at her. “For some reason, I don’t believe you,  _ haren _ .”

“That’s because you’ve been listening to me for far too long,  _ da’len _ ,” Salen told him. 

A knock on the door interrupted them and a scout poked her head in, “Pardon me, Your Worship. Seeker Cassandra is asking for your presence in the Chantry.”

Faron nodded, “Tell her I will be there shortly.”

The scout withdrew, and Faron turned back to the wash basin to finish cleaning his arms. “Are you staying,  _ haren _ ?”

“I was planning to, yes,” Salen leaned against the wall. “Someone has to keep you alive.”

He glanced up at her, “Are you that concerned about me?”

“ _ Da’len _ , I may not have agreed with the keeper often –“ her nephew raised an eyebrow. “Or ever, but she did not want to send anyone else from the clan here for a reason. These humans may revere you now, but how long will it be before they find a way to blame you?”

Faron reached for the clean shirt laid out on the bed. “They did blame me at first, but even though they did Cassandra still treated me fairly, and she would not let anyone else harm me. After we learned that I could seal the rifts, they even gave me the option to leave entirely.” He sat down on the bed. “I couldn’t do that,  _ ma’asa’ma’lin _ . I had to stay. I had to help them.”

Salen crossed the room and knelt by his feet, “I know,  _ da’len _ . You’re too noble for someone so young and foolish.”

He grinned, “I learned from the best.”

Salen laughed. “Do you think one of your Inquisition’s scouts can get a message to your mother? She was very worried about you.”

Faron sighed. His relationship with his mother had been cold at best for the past few years. His mother had married the keeper’s son when she joined the clan, and their children had both been mages. Faron had been an accepted part of that family, but that had changed when he became an adult. “I know,  _ haren _ . I will ask Leliana if one of her ravens can make the journey.”

Salen smiled, “Thank you, da’len. 

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Salen left her nephew to speak with the humans and turned her steps toward the valley — the sun was beginning to sink behind the mountains, and the sky to the west was alight with color that quickly vanished into the green expanse of the Breach to the north. The sight of it still made her stomach churn, and she turned away quickly to seek out the Chargers.

Her haren greeted her in the Fade that evening — the spirit welcomed her as he always did before descending the stairs from his archway. 

“You have found the Inquisition,” he said. It was not a question. “Do you begin to see why you must stay,  _ da’len _ ?”

Salen had studiously avoided thinking about their last conversation until she was able to do it justice,  _ and _ she was able to do it without anyone seeing her. “I begin to see it,  _ haren _ .” She paused. “There are so many people, and I suspect that more will come. The humans already fear the threat of so many. Any of these could be of the Dread Wolf’s making.”

The spirit stayed silent. Salen reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I don't even know if he will take on the guise of an elf. I have no way of knowing if any of the people I have already met could be one of his agents.” She resisted the idea that one of them could be him. “This is nonsense, haren. How would Fen’Harel even know what I know?”

“He has been in  _ uthernera _ for centuries,” the spirit returned. “He is also a dreamer, anything that the spirits of the Fade know he can find.” 

“Of course he is,” Salen felt fear settle into its familiar place in the pit of her stomach. “ _ Haren _ , I cannot do this. We are talking about a trickster god who will know me far sooner than I can ever –”

“He is not a god,  _ da’len _ ,” the spirit said. 

“Fine. He is not a god, but he is still far more powerful than I will ever be.”

“Not at the moment.” Her haren held up his hand for silence. “ _ Uthernera _ for so many years will have weakened him. The Veil will prevent him from accessing the true extent of his powers. For now.”

“For now,” Salen repeated. She sat down on the stairs of the temple. “ _ Haren _ , why am I even being asked to do this? Why are you asking me to do this?”

The spirit crouched down beside her, “Would you not seek justice for the wrongs of the past,  _ da’len _ ?”

“Justice?” Her head came up, “Is that what you are?”

The spirit was silent. 

Salen grit her teeth, “ _ Haren _ , I have no desire to be a harbinger of justice. I cannot be the one to decide who lives and who dies.”

“Do you not already do this, mortal?”

“No,” Salen bit out. “I do not.”

“You killed the templars on the road only a little time ago.”

“They attacked me!”

“No,” the spirit returned evenly. “They did not.”

The Fade around them shaped itself into the game trail she had followed almost three weeks ago. Salen watched herself retreat as the templar stepped into the trail, and saw her own face twist as she made the decision to attack him from behind. In that moment, he was no longer a lone templar but a desperate man whose only desire was to protect his family from the dangers of magic and its wielders. He knew only what the Chantry had taught him, and fought only to keep that evil away from his infant daughter. He had been five and twenty summers old. 

Tears ran down her face as the Fade released her back to the temple glade — Salen put her head in her hands and wept. That templar would never go home to his family and his daughter would grow up without him because of the choice she had made. She cringed away from just how familiar that sounded. She could never go home either. Deshanna had forced her out, but Salen had forced her hand. Eloya, the dear sister who had protected her from her tormentors in the alienage, and convinced her to join Clan Lavellan would be lost to her again. Faron was already without a family who loved him because of Salen’s influence, and now he carried the weight of this entire world. She gasped and stood gripping the front of her shirt as if to keep it from strangling her. After a long moment, her sobs grew faint and she swallowed against the pain in her throat. 

“Do you see,  _ da’len _ ,” the spirit came around to face her but did not touch her. “You have already made these choices many times in your life. There are those among you who live but deserve death and still others who die but deserve life. These choices have been given to you.”

“Why,” Salen looked up into his face. She saw nothing there which gave her comfort or certainty. Only the lines of a familiar visage which had been constructed solely for her benefit. 

“Because you asked for it,” the spirit said evenly.

“I never asked for this!”

“ _ Da’len _ ,” the spirit said and her vision faded again. Moments in time sprang up before her eyes, and she found herself reliving each painful moment of her life:  _ mamae’s _ arrest by the arl’s men, the bruises and blood they brought her back with, the children pinching and pulling at her, Elva’s ire, Kallian’s fight with papae, Valendrian keeping her trapped until the templars came, Anders’ handsome face covered in bruises, Solona with the sunburst brand on her brow, Cullen’s face contorted in rage — it went on and through each moment of her life where she had demanded justice within the privacy of her own thoughts. Each moment where she had screamed silently into the void for more. Marethari banishing Merrill, the keeper turning the clan against her First, Anders weeping as he told her Karl’s fate, the pain of a sword sinking into her side when the templars came for her, the guilt and regret of leaving Merrill behind in Kirkwall, Deshanna’s decision when Faron had refused to bond with any of the women of the clan. Each moment chased another through her mind and brought with it the full extent of her rage at each injustice. It was overwhelming to experience all at once. She was drowning in her own desire to see the world righted. 

When it stopped she was on her knees in the grass gasping for air. Her nails hands were streaked with dirt and long furrows in the turf told her she had been clawing her way across the ground. Salen held her hands out in front of her as she rose to her feet. 

The spirit seemed almost sad as it approached her, “You saw?”

She nodded. “I saw.”

“You understand?”

“Yes.”

“It was your desire to right the world which drew me to you,  _ da’len _ ,” the spirit told her. “I offered you guidance, but you made the choice to give of yourself for the knowledge of greater things. You must understand that the injustice that you have experienced is only a small piece of a far greater crime. Only when true justice is meted out to correct this will you have any hope of bringing justice to your own life.” 

Salen nodded. “ _ Sathan, haren _ ,” she said softly. “I must think about all this. I will not forget what you have shown me.”

The spirit nodded and gestured for her to stand. “of course,  _ da’len _ . It is your choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sucks to be Cullen — also, yes, I know that "Curly" is Varric's nickname for Cullen, but the Iron Bull doesn't know that yet. He and Varric are going to have a lot of fun arguing over nicknames later on. Salen is going to hate it.
> 
> Yes, there is another LOTR reference in this chapter. Don't act surprised.
> 
> Elvhen language credits go to Project Elvhen!
> 
> Dareth shiral, isa’ma’lin. - "Safe journey, brother."  
> lethallan - kinsman  
> shems - from "shemlen" and unflattering name for humans  
> Su an’banal i’ma - "to the void with you"  
> alin - "stranger"  
> Ma’asa’ma’lin - "aunt"  
> da’len - "child/student"  
> haren - "elder/teacher"  
> Uthernera - "eternal waking dream" that "Do Not Disturb" thing the elves used to do  
> Sathan - "please"


End file.
